Never mind Pet Sounds. Good record, but a totem. That leaves three great Beach Boys albums. First comes a fun-fun-fun best-of: With the canonical Endless Summer deleted, settle for 2003's longer, less pristine Sounds of Summer. The other two are quickies that fit neatly on one must-own CD: Buy Smiley Smile/Wild Honey while EMI lets you.
Smiley Smile and Wild Honey get respect now, but in 1967 they peeved hard-core Pet Sounds fans, who were waiting gape-mouthed for Smile, described by those in the know as the American Sgt. Pepper -- proof that our Bea-boys belonged in the same league as their Bea-boys. But Brian went bonkers, Mike Love got busy, and we ended up with only "Good Vibrations" and "Heroes and Villains" -- stopgap singles that made it onto the belittlingly titled Smiley Smile -- and dribs and drabs thereafter.
Only you know what happened? Brian Wilson survived his saner brothers and rebuilt his career, which the completely rerecorded SmiLE is supposed to crown. Since much of Wilson's 2004 Gettin' In Over My Head could have been sung from a crypt, this seemed like a terrible idea. Instead, it's a triumph.
SmiLE began as a concert concept for Wilson's expert alt-rock road band, which by 2002 had exhausted Pet Sounds. Never completed, Smile existed only as a jumble of alternate versions, song fragments and ill-cataloged tapes. Sifting through these was a collaborator as crucial as lyricist Van Dyke Parks: keyboard player, harmony vocalist and "musical secretary" Darian Sahanaja. With Sahanaja and Parks jogging his memory, Wilson revised and composed until the best pieces formed a forty-seven-minute whole that started shortly before "Heroes and Villains" and climaxed with "Good Vibrations." While no symphony, it cohered and flowed. The sparer, simpler recorded version follows the pattern of the ecstatically reviewed live performances. Anchored by deft quotes and thematic repetitions, SmiLE is beautiful and funny, goofily grand. It's looser and messier than Sgt. Pepper and, one suspects, always would have been. But its sui generis Americanism counterbalances its paucity of classic pop songs. Not in the same league -- just ready to play a World Series.
Although Parks is a well-traveled arranger who must have left some marks on Wilson's music during their hash-fueled 1966-67 brainstorming sessions, his words do the talking. They're poetic in a manner Wilson has no gift for: now idiomatic, now archaic, now obscure, pervaded by images of fleeting youth and a frontier that stretches to Hawaii. Although stoned confusion and mild pastoral pessimism are endemic, the world they evoke is as benign as a day at the beach -- yet less simplistic (and deceptive) than the Beach Boys' fantasies of eternal Southern California teendom. In this the lyrics are of a piece with the jokey songlets of Smiley Smile, where five SmiLE titles first surfaced, and the good-natured rock & roll recidivism of Wild Honey. What elevates them into something approaching a utopian vision is Wilson's orchestrations: brief bridge melodies, youthful harmonies more precise and uplifting now than when executed by actually existing callow people and an enthralling profusion of instrumental colors. Trombone, timpani, theremin and tenor sax brush by and disappear; a banjo shows its head; strings vibe around; woodwinds establish unexpected moods and pipe down.
That the pros who surround Wilson are up to all of this is gratifying but not startling. What the auteur himself had in him was more questionable. And that's the central miracle of this gift of music. Wilson's voice has deepened and coarsened irreparably. Although he hits the notes, he can't convey the innocence SmiLE's content seems to demand. But he can convey commitment and belief -- belief that his young bonkers self composed a work that captured possibilities now nearly lost to history. SmiLE proves that those possibilities are still worth pursuing. (ROBERT CHRISTGAU)
Interpol Antics (Matador)
On their 2002 debut, Turn On the bright Lights, Interpol proved that their uncanny resemblance to the heavy-hearted post-punk guitar groups of the early Eighties was both a blessing and a curse. On its follow-up, the New York quartet moves forward. Continuous touring has clearly improved each member's chops: Antics is a far more refined and finessed record than its predecessor. More remarkable is the well-dressed foursome's improved songwriting. Whereas Bright Lights made its mark with bleak moods and Paul Banks' vocal anguish, Antics achieves a tunefulness that warms and broadens Interpol's music, and helps them establish an identity distinct from their dolorous influences. On "Evil," the guitars pulsate, pause as if for breath and then surge as the melody soars and Banks offers hard-won optimism: "It took a life span with no cellmate/The long way back/Sandy, why can't we look the other way?" What was once forced for Interpol now comes naturally: Antics chooses light over darkness without denying gray areas between. (BARRY WALTERS)
Nancy Sinatra Nancy Sinatra (Sanctuary)
Don't Nancy Sinatra and Morrissey make a cute couple? The woman who sang "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'" and the guy who sang "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" -- is it really so strange? On her first studio album since 1995, the mod go-go girl (and Frank's daughter) gets a boost from her devout fan Morrissey. Not only did Moz introduce Sinatra to his label, he duets on her velvet-morning version of his tune "Let Me Kiss You." Sinatra also gets love from tomcats such as U2's Bono and the Edge, Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore and Pulp's Jarvis Cocker. It's a grand meeting between a star and her fans, as Sinatra proves she's not the end of the family line. (ROB SHEFFIELD)
Joss Stone Mind, Body & Soul (S-Curve)
When Joss Stone opens her mouth and sings with the power of soul sisters three times her age, it's hard to imagine that she's seventeen -- much less a white chick from Devon, England. She's already a sensation because of The Soul Sessions, a covers album released while Mind, Body & Soul was still in the works, and this one should push her profile even higher. It's full of stunning examples of the kind of vocal dynamics no training could improve. Even though contributions by R&B legends Betty Wright, Lamont Dozier, Desmond Child and Nile Rodgers give the album bit too much of a disco lean during the somewhat overproduced first half, mid-way through -- beginning with the gospel/reggae-ish "Less Is More" Stone -- gets the room she needs and unleashes the gritty emotions that could get her crowned as another queen of soul. (LYNNE MARGOLIS)
Travis Morrison Travistan (Barsuk)
When the D.C. quirk-rock quartet the Dismemberment Plan disbanded in 2004, charismatic frontman Travis Morrison became a ringleader without a circus. Now solo, his unique talent for storytelling survives the breakup completely intact. Morrison's new crop of funk-based, sample-heavy songs -- some with full string arrangements, post-punk guitar explosions or mini piano concertos -- emerge with all the literary wit and offbeat subject matter that made the Plan's material so compelling in the first place. Using absurd, parabolic lyricism to explore right vs. wrong, revenge and the United States' current sociopolitical climate, Morrison clearly enjoys the creative control that a solo career now affords him. Fortunately, any pomposity gives way to touches of self-deprecating humor, as on "Born in 72", which is laden with tongue-in-cheek laugh tracks and canned applause. "Get Me Off This Coin" is broken into four, short, glib acoustic asides (A through D) that separate the album into chapter-like sections. This isn't the last we'll be hearing from his overstuffed mind, and that's a joyous thing. (JOAN HILLER)
Various Artists The Late Great Daniel Johnston (Gammon)
On the cover of The Late Great Daniel Johnston, a tribute to the eccentric, schizophrenic, lo-fi singer-songwriter who inspired everyone from Kurt Cobain to Vic Chesnutt, the very much alive Johnston holds roses and overlooks his own tombstone -- a dark joke made once before by another great singer-songwriter, Townes Van Zandt. On this two-disc set, contributors have the particular challenge of having their covers accompany Johnston's originals. The selections prove instantly malleable to assorted interpretations. Clem Snide's Eef Barzelay overlays a refined, vocal whine on a passionate take of "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Your Grievance." Sparklehorse and the Flaming Lips apply serene psychedelia to "Go," and Vic Chesnutt turns the playful "Like a Monkey in a Zoo" into a somber, heart-wrenching affair. Johnston's songwriting possesses a dark humor that is both comforting in brutal honesty and disturbing in emotional directness. Disc Two allows the listener to experience this for themselves -- an effective introduction to this still-obscure artist's contribution to American music. (DOUGLAS WATERMAN)
Cub Country Stay Poor/Stay Happy (Future Farmer)
While Jeremy Chatelain is best known as Blake Schwartezenbach's anchor in indie rock giants Jets to Brazil, he's spent the past five years building his alt-country tinged side-project Cub Country into a fully realized band. And it shows in the cohesiveness of CC's second long-player Stay Poor/Stay Happy. Chatelain's voice and songwriting chops shine on the nostalgic "If We Should Fall" and the bitter, heartbreak-inspired disc opener "Be Yer Own Hitman." If the bulk of the disc is subdued, acoustic-strummed melancholy, the frequent presence of a weepy lap steel should please folks pining for Wilco's A.M. At times, the songs run on a little longer than necessary, but the rollicking "Missed the Train" -- a welcome foray into whiskey-soaked, Stones-derived fun -- is a fine forum for Chatelain's co-conspirators (guitarist Jeff Clarke, drummer Justin Ansley and bassist Matt Sumrow) to work out their chops. (JOHN D. LUERSSEN)
Tony Joe White The Heroines (Sanctuary)
Louisiana swamp rock icon Tony Joe White loves the ladies, and they love him back on The Heroines. On this collection of righteous duets, he calls upon some of roots music's most revered female singers, and his deep baritone flows beneath their voices like a river of aged bourbon. Shelby Lynne brings her sultry best over humming B3 organ on "Can't Go Back Home," which she co-wrote with White. Lucinda Williams joins White on "Closing In On the Fire," a sensual rocker propelled by a rhythm reminiscent of Williams' "Hot Blood" with a dose of Memphis horns and distorted wah wah guitar. "Wild Wolf Calling Me," with Emmylou Harris, evokes dusty trails with its languorous cowpoke tempo and just a bit of honky-tonk fiddling. White steps out on his own on tunes like the wicked "Ice Cream Man" ("Sometimes she's a little girl lickin' on an ice cream cone"), but he's already preparing another duets project where the gents get their due -- not surprisingly called The Heroes. (MEREDITH OCHS)
The Arcade Fire Funeral (Merge)
In the aftermath of three relatives dying, the six members of Montreal-based the Arcade Fire recorded their debut, Funeral, which thrashes and moans with pain and loss. The ornate, textured album is set in an anonymous, gloomy "Neighborhood," where parents weep, residents disco to the light of police sirens and "witches and liars" burn. It's a sorrowful, spooky place, made more sorrowful and spooky by the music: angry, forceful melodies join intricate, grand orchestrations, complete with accordions, xylophones and strings. Song after song finds frontman Win Butler wallowing and howling, mining for purpose in the wreckage of this town. On the waltzing "Crown of Love," Butler confesses: "I carved your name across my eyelids/You pray for rain I pray for blindness/If you still want me, please forgive me." Yikes: these newcomers aren't exactly a good time; their tunes swell with regret and rage -- but they do so beautifully. (BENJAMIN FRIEDLAND)
Earlimart Treble & Tremble (Palm Pictures)
Los Angeles rockers Earlimart have dedicated their second full-length to departed friend Elliott Smith, and his impact is felt in nearly every moment of Treble & Tremble -- from the breathy, detached vocals to the lyrics that intertwine the themes of death, grief and miscommunication. This dedication threatens to become a burden when Earlimart's homage occasionally hems a little too close to imitation. But, overall, this ethereal album is a masterful, layered collection that builds on the contradiction between temporal fragility and an indelible strength. The deftly controlled production, by singer Aaron Espinoza and Grandaddy's Jim Fairchild, further instills an environment that creates distance and evokes loss, but is beautiful nonetheless. Soft piano, shimmering atmospherics and plaintive guitar lines makes gorgeous melodies like "Tell the Truth Pt. 1, Tell the Truth Pt. 2" soar, while "All They Ever Do Is Talk" is a cold slice of reality, reminding that "nothing hurts until it's gone." (MARGARET WAPPLER)
Devendra Banhart Nino Rojo (Young God)
"Not everyone can relate to what you and I appreciate," intones whinnying singer-songwriter Devendra Banhart on "Nino Rojo." That line speaks volumes about Banhart, who, caustic, weird, absurd and poetic, challenges traditional musical notions. On this strikingly beautiful work, where he sounds like Donovan on LSD (well, on more LSD), Banhart weaves dreamy apparitions with his catchy folk guitar -- sometimes even dabbling in Spanish-style picking -- adding strange rhymes here and there. He can go from cryptic, minimalist lyricist to astute wordsmith ("My love is a so-long song gone forever more") in no time. And even if you get the feeling that DB's seemingly unselfconscious naturalist sounds (coughs, giggles, mutterings) are in fact calculated, it doesn't matter. They impart a humanness to the album, something rarely heard on today's polished recordings, and you find yourself straining to hear more of them. (ROBIN AIGNER)
